


I keep walking away from you

by Bunny_Manders



Category: Great Pretender (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, First Time Bottoming, Hand Jobs, M/M, and nobody's a virgin, canonical injuries, everyone's bisexual in this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26263738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunny_Manders/pseuds/Bunny_Manders
Summary: Makoto keeps trying to walk away from his life of crime. Laurent keeps kissing him goodbye.
Relationships: Edamura Makoto/Laurent Thierry
Comments: 19
Kudos: 356





	1. Leaving Los Angeles

**Author's Note:**

> Some spicy interludes after the action's over. I'll try to write one for each case!

The party was still going strong with no signs of slowing down at midnight. Makoto wasn’t sure why he even bothered to check the clock. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious or what time zone he was in. 

Drinking with a head injury didn’t seem like a wise choice, but he hadn’t gotten where he was by making good choices, so he let Cynthia refill his glass over and over. He’d never had wine quite like it, rich and red. Whenever he took a sip, his lip stung where the blows from Cassano had split it. His eye had swollen nearly shut, but he was drunk enough that the pain hardly even registered.

The sofa he was sitting on looked like it probably cost more than a month of his rent. Makoto tried to tally up the cost of the furnishings in this room alone. How much for the whole villa? How much for the island? He couldn’t wrap his head around the extravagance of it all. How many scams had Cynthia pulled off to afford a place like this? How many lives had she ruined in her climb to the top?

Abby sat down next to him and elbowed him hard. She looked clearer-eyed than most of the party-goers, although there was a wine glass in her hand and a dark flush coloring her cheeks. Makoto felt a sharp elbow drive into his ribs. “Cheer up,” she said, in a tone that sounded like a command. “You’re ruining the mood.”

Makoto took another gulp of wine to hide his discomfort. “I’m cheerful,” he said. “I’m having a good time. We just made a lot of money, who wouldn’t be happy?”

Abby glared at him, unimpressed. “Maybe you can pay someone to take your virginity.”

“I’m not a virgin,” Makoto protested. 

Abby rolled her eyes. Makoto stood up, which was a mistake. He was more drunk than he realized, and his head was swimming. The room was too bright, the lights reflecting from too many gilded and polished surfaces. He needed a walk to clear his head.

The villa was large enough that he got lost trying to find a door out, and had to stop at a bathroom before doubling back. He went through a guest bedroom, stumbling over a suitcase and knocking a painting askew on the wall when he put out his arm to stop himself from falling it. As he straightened it, he realized the piece was a nude portrait of a woman reclining on a bed covered in saffron-yellow drapery. She was wearing vaguely Grecian sandals and a sultry come-hither expression. Makoto was no art expert, but he was pretty sure the frame alone cost enough to cover half a year’s worth of groceries.

The bedroom had a sliding glass door that opened directly onto the beach. Makoto took a few steps, his feet sinking in the sand, and decided to kick his shoes and socks off. He was still carrying his wine glass, which was full; he couldn’t remember Cynthia topping it off. She must have snuck an extra pour in without him noticing.

A cool breeze was blowing off the sea. Makoto wandered down across a stretch of pristine sand, silver-white in the moonlight, and stopped when he hit the water. A wave rolled over his ankles, cold enough to make him jump, but he dug his toes into the wet sand and stayed where he was. Some more sips of wine warmed him up.

It had been a long time since he’d been to the beach. He hadn’t had the time or money since his mother got sick, and after he got out of jail, his life of crime had barely earned enough to cover his expenses. Even his fondest memories of family holidays were of crowded public beaches, with hundreds of people screaming and splashing in the waves. He’d never seen such a pristine stretch of ocean in his life. Again, he tried to estimate how much it had cost and came up short in his own imagination.

There was a scuff of soft footsteps on the sand behind him. Makoto didn’t turn around. Everyone on this island was--well, they weren’t his friends, but they’d already done the maximum amount of damage they could do to him.

“Enjoying the view?” a deep voice said behind him. The vowels were ever so slightly blurred by the French accent, but Laurent was still far better at English than him.

The wind on his face was still cold, but Makoto could feel his face flushing. He clutched the stem of his wine glass tighter and said, “I was wondering where in the world we are.”

“Don’t worry, Cynthia won’t make you find your way home alone. She’s got a private jet. The pilot’s trustworthy--he won’t even give  _ me _ the coordinates for this place, and I’ve tried to bribe him.”

“I bet I could make it on my own. I’d build a raft out of palm trees.” Makoto pointed in the direction he assumed was west. The moon was dipping low enough in the sky to leave a streak of light on the water. He imagined himself following that road home, a silver trail in the water. “The Japanese are a very… what did you call me? I can’t remember.”

Laurent chuckled. It was a warm sound, as rich as Cynthia’s undoubtedly expensive wine. “My apologies. I find that it helps to use a mark’s prejudices against him. It’s easy enough to convince a narrow-minded American that a Frenchman is a fair judge of fine art, or wine, or women--but I needed you to play on Cassano’s belief that Japanese products must be superior. As a matter of fact, I have my eye on a fellow in New York who’d jump at the chance to invest in the Japanese high tech industry, since he doesn’t understand the first thing about it. You’d be perfect as the heir apparent of Kaburagi Industries.”

In a strange way, it was charming that Laurent was already thinking about working with him again. But Makoto was still angry about being misled, and he was sobering up enough that it was hard to ignore the way the cuts on his face were stinging in the salt wind. “I’m pretty invested in this raft, to be honest,” he said, pointing out at the water. “Might not be able to clear any room in my schedule. Lots of paddling to do.”

Laurent laughed again. Makoto felt a pair of hands on his shoulders, warm through the fabric of his polo shirt. Laurent tugged him around gently until he was facing in a different direction, out toward a patch of starry sky. “If you want to get to Japan, you’ll have to go that way,” he said.

Makoto rocked back on his heels as one of the bigger waves washed over his feet. Laurent had been standing closer to him than he’d realized. He ended up with his back pressed up against the hard lines of Laurent’s torso. The heat of his body radiated through the fabric of his shirt. Laurent squeezed his shoulders lightly but didn’t step back.

“Why are you even out here?” Makoto asked. “Shouldn’t you be rolling in a pile of money or something?”

“Cynthia let me know that someone had left the door to my room open. And I noticed I hadn’t seen your fetching face in a while.”

His wine glass was still half full. Makoto tipped his head back and drained it, letting his head rest on Laurent’s shoulder while he drank. He wasn’t sure if he was being seductive or just sloppy. Laurent was probably used to partners as sophisticated as he was. When the glass was empty, Makoto tried to think of a good explanation for why he’d left the party, but ended up blurting out, “Abby keeps calling me a virgin.”

This time, he could feel Laurent’s chuckle as well as hear it. “She’s a lady of strong opinions, isn’t she?”

“Well, she’s wrong. I’m not a virgin.” He’d lost his virginity to another third year in high school, just a few months before graduation. Neither of them had known what they were doing, but she’d been sweet to him and forgiving of his ineptitude, except for one ego-puncturing fit of the giggles. He’d seen a few people after than, nothing serious, and during his time in prison he’d come to an understanding with a fellow inmate who’d been a shoplifter for long enough to develop a knack for finding spots that cameras didn’t cover.

Laurent said, “That’s good to know.”

“Sorry to spoil your fantasy about deflowering an unspoiled innocent.” He knew he was torpedoing his chances with Laurent, but after such a long, strange spell of pretending to be someone he wasn’t, Makoto was tired of lying. 

“I may play the great debaucher, but in all honesty, I prefer to dance with partners who already know the steps,” said Laurent, a man who’d probably never been honest in his life. Makoto made the choice to believe him anyway. “And my dance card’s open at the moment.”

That was a clear enough invitation. Makoto turned, dropping his empty glass in the surf. He hoped the sea would carry it away or bury it before some other partygoer decided to go walking barefoot on the beach. Laurent was tall enough that he had to go on tiptoes to reach his mouth, and that made his feet sink further into the wet sand, so he had to cling to Laurent’s broad shoulders to keep his footing. Laurent’s mouth tasted like the wine he’d just been drinking, an expensive extravagance, every penny of that price stolen. He was good with his tongue, and careful with his teeth around the split in Makoto’s lip.

“Let’s go back to my room,” Laurent said.

Makoto tugged him further along the beach instead. His face was still a mess, and he didn’t want Laurent to spend too much time looking at it. “This might be my one chance to fuck on a private island. Look, no one can see past that stand of trees from the villa.”

Laurent laughed again but followed gladly as Makoto took his arm and pulled him to the spot he’d chosen. It was some sort of private garden, as if the whole island weren’t private enough for Cynthia. The place was set up for mingling, with while marble benches scattered throughout a landscape of dwarf palms and flowering bushes. Makoto pushed Laurent onto a bench. Before he could drop to his knees, Laurent hooked his ankles around his legs and gazed up at him with an expression that was far too reverent. “I didn’t realize you were the type to take charge,” he said, in that soft accent that was sexier than it had any right to be. “You’re full of surprises tonight, edamame.”

Makoto slapped a hand over Laurent’s mouth. “Stop saying that! You know it’s not my name.”

Laurent laughed again, a warm puff of air through Makoto’s fingers, and sank his teeth gently into the pad of flesh beneath his thumb. Anyone else would have made it look hopelessly cheesy, but Makoto’s cheeks felt like they were burning, and the blood that wasn’t rushing there was pulsing through a much lower place. Laurent noticed that too, and ran his palms up Makoto’s thighs to cup his crotch. “But then, how would I make you angry? You’re so cute when you’re angry.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.” Makoto wasn’t sure if he was angry now. There was an emotion building in his chest for sure, hot and tight. He didn’t want to be  _ cute. _ He didn’t want to be laughed at, to be made a fool of by the real scammers. If that was the only way to play the game, he’d rather take himself off the board.

But first, he’d make Laurent miss him. He backed up, kicking Laurent’s legs away, and finally managed to get down on the ground. He pushed Laurent’s tacky Hawaiian shirt up, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of a sculpted abdomen he didn’t have time to explore. He fumbled Laurent’s belt buckle open, then the button of his trousers. 

Laurent was half hard already. Under other circumstances Makoto might have enjoyed taking his time, playing with that hard flesh under the thin fabric of his boxer briefs, but his eye was badly swollen and he didn’t think he’d make a particularly appealing sight trying to be seductive right now. Instead, he tugged the briefs down enough to free Laurent’s cock, bent his head, and got to work.

Laurent’s laughter turned into a small gasp, as if he were overwhelmed with sensation, or maybe just shocked that Makoto knew what he was doing after all. There wasn’t much to see in the darkness of the garden. Makoto could feel the glide of a foreskin under his tongue. He leaned forward, bracing himself with a hand on Laurent’s thigh, using the other to pump the shaft as he bobbed his head. His split lip was a distant ache. He wasn’t sure if the pounding in his head was blood throbbing in his temples, or an incipient hangover, or if he was only hearing the surf against the shore. Laurent’s hand settled in his hair, not pushing his head down, just a caress. It felt better than it had any right to.

He’d lost track of time ages ago. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been at it when Laurent’s soft moans took on a more frantic edge and he said, “I’m going to come.”

Makoto dropped his head lower, his lips reaching almost to the base. Tears prickled in his eyes, but he swallowed back the gag reflex and felt Laurent’s cock twitch as his hand tightened in Makoto’s hair. 

He sat up, wiping his mouth, feeling his lip stinging. Thank goodness for the darkness. He must look like a mess. Laurent put a finger under his chin, tipped his head up, and kissed him. The tightness in his chest eased a little. He dug his fingers into Laurent’s thigh. Anger would have been easier to deal with.

Makoto stood, a little wobbly after kneeling for so long, and Laurent pulled him down onto his lap. He ended up in an ungainly half sprawl, with his ass balanced on one of Laurent’s thighs. Laurent steadied him by putting one hand on his back while the other explored the front of his jeans. “I should return the favor,” he said, speaking with his mouth up against Makoto’s ear so the words came out in a low purr that was as much vibration as sound.

Makoto shuddered and looked down at Laurent’s wandering hand. There were unmistakable grass stains on his knees. “Like this is fine,” he said.

Laurent slid his hand under the waistband of his jeans, his fingers warm and light against flesh. Makoto squirmed and pressed his face into Laurent’s neck. He smelled cologne, a brand far too subtle and expensive to match that tacky tourist’s shirt he was wearing, just a hint of leather and something spicy. Laurent popped the button of his jeans open and explored further down. Makoto closed his eyes and gave himself over to sensation.

He wanted to last longer, but Laurent was good with his hands, and it had been a long time since anyone had held him and pretended to care. The tension in him wound tighter and tighter. He came with a startled gasp, his face still pressed against Laurent’s neck.

Laurent kissed the top of his head and handed him an honest-to-god handkerchief to clean up. It was monogrammed, although not with an  _ LT _ . Makoto wasn’t sure whether that meant it was stolen, a souvenir from another lover, or whether Laurent had a few extra aliases.

“I’m going back inside,” he said, sliding off Laurent’s lap. “Cynthia’s probably wondering where we went.”

Laurent stood too and grabbed his hand. “Think about New York, won’t you? You’d be perfect for the role.”

That was all he was to Laurent, Makoto reminded himself: a convenient actor, the right face for playing a part. They didn’t really know each other. How could they? Laurent had told him nothing about his real life, and Makoto hadn’t exactly been forthcoming either. Tonight had been a nice game, but tomorrow he’d have to face reality again.

He made a noncommittal noise. Tomorrow, he’d start setting things right. He’d find a way to use his share of the cash to pay back all the money he’d stolen from innocent people. He wouldn’t go to New York, even though there was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to pretend to be whatever Laurent needed him to be.

Laurent dipped his head and kissed him a final time. His mouth still tasted like wine. Makoto closed his eyes and tried to fix this moment in his mind, not because it meant anything real, but because it was the nicest lie anyone had ever told him.


	2. Goodbye Singapore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After spending his take from the Singapore job, Makoto accepts an invitation to visit Paris.

After Makoto and Abby had been fished out of the sea, the gang stayed on the water for the evening, puttering out into the strait to watch the sunset. If this were a movie, Makoto thought, it would be the perfect ending: all these dashing criminals standing on the deck, sharing a case of cider that Shi-won had brought aboard. The sun was setting over the water in a riot of color, lighting the clouds up pink and purple and a soft, golden yellow.

The cold wind coming off the water cut right through his damp clothes. The spots that had dried were stiff with salt, and the spots that hadn’t were beginning to chafe against his skin. Abby had gotten soaked too, but she’d stripped off her flight suit to reveal a tank top and a pair of leggings that already looked dry. She was currently in the middle of a struggle with Cynthia, trying to get to the rail to dump the wet purple suit back in the water. Makoto could tell she was playing around. If she really wanted to get her way, Cynthia would be flat out on the deck.

Laurent must have spotted him shivering, because he walked over to lean against the railing. He had a suit jacket draped over his arm that looked like the perfect match for his waistcoat. Makoto turned away and pretended to look at the skyline, with his elbows on the railing and his half-empty bottle of cider dangling over the water. 

“You look cold,” said Laurent, bending down a little so his lips were very close to Makoto’s ear.

Makoto clutched his drink tighter and tried to suppress another shiver. He was still freezing, but he could feel his cheeks heating up. Laurent hadn’t made a move the whole time they’d been in Singapore, and he kept vacillating between relief and anger about that. To Laurent, he’d no doubt been one lover among hundreds; one blowjob in a garden was hardly a romance. But Makoto had spent the last few years with nothing to do but dwell on his past, and he’d thought about that night too often.

“You’d be freezing too if you’d been the one who got dunked in the ocean,” Makoto said, because snapping at Laurent was easier than untangling the complicated knot of feelings he didn’t know how to deal with.

“Of course,” Laurent said, sounding amused and not at all put off by the way Makoto was bristling at him. “Let me warm you up.”

Makoto tensed and looked down at the water. The jacket settled over his shoulders, warm and heavy. It had been a long time since he’d worn a nice suit, but he could tell just from the texture of the fabric brushing the back of his neck that this was expensive wool. Laurent turned to look out over the water too and said, “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I don’t think any of us should enjoy swindling people out of their money,” Makoto told him. He didn’t want to admit that he’d had more fun in the last couple weeks than in the whole previous year of his life. Prison might have been meditative, but it didn’t hold a candle to these wild thrills.

Laurent chucked and asked, “Admiring the view?”

“It’s all right,” Makoto admitted. The way the lit windows in the skyscrapers glittered in the dusk reminded him of the way diamonds glittered in a jeweler's velvet case.

Laurent was silent for a moment, no doubt making his own metaphors for the pretty skyline. “What do you think the body count is?” he asked.

“What?” Makoto was bewildered. They hadn’t killed anyone. Even Caio Bisconti had been unhurt, just rattled by his crash landing on the water.

“There’s all the battles that have been fought over this particular bit of land,” said Laurent, and Makoto realized he was talking about the city spread out before them. “And the workers who died or were hurt building all these skyscrapers, of course. But that’s a simplistic way of counting the total casualties. How many families were bankrupted in the name of collecting all the capital that just a single company on a single floor of one office building? How many people who could have turned their minds to bettering humanity wasted their lives creating value for shareholders in those offices instead? How many work orders were sent abroad to unsafe factories, how many millions of tons of carbon waste did senseless demand create? When I look at a beautiful skyline, I can’t help but ask myself who died for it.”

“That’s a grim view of the world,” Makoto said. He realized now that he’d have preferred Laurent flirting to philosophizing, and wished he knew how to turn the conversation back to familiar territory.

Laurent turned to look at him. He was wearing a wide, genuine smile. The city lights made his blue eyes glitter. “The whole world’s a swindle,” he said, with a conviction that felt to Makoto like it was coming from somewhere deeper than his usual smooth patter. “Everything worth having in this world’s been passed around from thief to thief. Some of the biggest thieves call themselves  _ venture capitalists _ or  _ financiers _ or  _ entrepreneurs _ , but the only truth you can count on in this world is that it’s confidence men all the way down.”

Makoto shrugged. He wasn’t even sure if Laurent could see the gesture under his borrowed coat. “Even so, I’d like to try being an honest man.”

“You know, a wise old scammer I happened to know told me something about honest men,” said Laurent.

“Yeah?” said Makoto. He thought already knew it, an English phrase he’d heard once and taken to heart:  _ You can't cheat an honest man _ .

“Yes,” said Laurent. “He said, ‘Don’t waste your time with them, they’re too poor to be worth robbing.’”

There was a pop that reverberated across the water, then Cynthia shrieked Laurent’s name. Makoto straightened and looked over, prepared for some new disaster, but she was only waving a foaming bottle of champagne in his direction. Laurent tipped his head at Makoto, as if acknowledging a point Makoto hadn’t even made yet, and glided off to find Cynthia some glasses.

They didn’t have a chance to speak privately again before they split up at the airport the next morning. Makoto booked a flight back to Tokyo and caught a few hours of sleep in the terminal that left him feeling groggy and sweaty. He didn’t realize until he’d taken his seat on the plane that he was still wearing Laurent’s jacket.

Like any good thief, he took it off and turned all the pockets inside out in case there was anything valuable he’d missed. He supposed he should return anything he found to Laurent by mail, although now that he thought of it, he wasn’t sure where Laurent lived or how to reach him. The only thing he found was a piece of paper in the breast pocket, the same size as a business card, but with no name or company logo on it at all. On one side was a phone number beginning with the country code +33. Makoto ran a fingertip over it; the black numbers were perfectly debossed. On the other side, written in blue ballpoint pen, were the words  _ If you ever change your mind. _

He remembered a point in the night where everyone had been good and sloppy, and Abby had put him in a headlock for some reason. Laurent had talked her down and steadied Makoto by the lapels of his jacket when he pulled out of her grip and stumbled over his own feet. Had his hand lingered for a second by that pocket? Or was the message meant for someone else?

Back in Japan, Makoto got to work getting rid of his cut of the profits from the air racing scheme. He’d paid back his own debts, but his father’s crimes still weighed on him. Money wouldn’t fix what he’d done to those kids, but it was the only form of justice Makoto had access to, and he spent the next few months tracking down lawyers and arranging anonymous trusts. The victims’ names had never been made public, of course, and Makoto didn’t want to reopen old wounds by trying to speak to them directly. 

He left the jacket hanging in the back of his closet and tucked the card out of sight in the pocket. The numbers in his bank account ticked lower. With every small fortune that disappeared, Makoto felt a little pressure lifting from his shoulders. When the cash ran out, it was time for one final act of honesty.

The first time he dialed the number on the card, no one picked up. Makoto sat there listening to a robotic female voice on the answering machine, then realized it was the middle of the night in France. He hung up without leaving a message and spent a restless day cleaning his apartment before he tried again. This time, Laurent picked up on the second ring.

“I was wondering when you’d call,” Laurent said, sounding neither surprised nor disappointed by the delay. “How’s honest life treating you?”

“I think your old friend was right,” said Makoto, “I’m too poor, you’d be wasting your time to spend it with me.”

“Really? Your cut from Singapore was over a million,” said Laurent, sounding suspicious now.

“I spent it,” Makoto admitted. Haltingly, he explained what his father had done and how he’d tried to settle the score. Laurent was uncharacteristically quiet while he talked. “I didn’t even keep enough in reserve for a plane ticket. But there’s a ramen shop down the street that’s hiring, so I’ll be all right.”

The silence on the other end of the line was so complete that Makoto wondered whether Laurent had wandered away from the phone. It would serve him right for trying to tell his sob story to someone who had no reason to care.

“I’d like to see you again someday,” Makoto said. “I think if I save my money, I’ll have enough to visit France in two years Maybe three, depending on the exchange rate.”

“Hmm.” Laurent sounded thoughtful, and a little sly. Maybe he was flattered by the knowledge that Makoto hadn’t wholly rejected him after all. “You know, the senior management of Air France treats its workers quite badly. There have been a lot of strikes.”

“What do you mean by that?” Makoto asked.

“I mean that if you want to believe you’re honest, you’ll probably want to stay ignorant,” said Laurent.

Less than a week later, an email showed up in Makoto’s account letting him know that he had enough credits with Air France to fly back and forth from Tokyo in first class ten times over. Makoto did some searching and discovered that two of C-suite executives were selling off properties at a loss for unspecified reasons. Laurent worked fast.

Even with a nonstop flight, Makoto stumbled off the plane in Paris bleary-eyed and rumpled from spending far too long in an uncomfortable seat. He’d chosen to fly economy class, and tried to avoid thinking about why he was so careful about conserving his miles. This was just a one-time thing. Laurent probably felt bad for him.

He looked for a familiar head of blonde hair at the arrival gate, but found instead a town car driver with a printed sign that said  **Edamame** . Makoto decided to answer to the stupid nickname rather than storm off in a huff. The driver was silent the whole way from Charles de Gaulle to their destination. From the backseat, Makoto studied the side of his head carefully for signs that he was wearing an elaborate disguise, but concluded in the end that he was indeed just a town car driver.

The car stopped in front of a pale stone building that was blocky but beautiful, with a dark mansard roof and pristine wrought iron balcony railings. The driver twisted in his seat to hand Makoto a piece of paper folded around something hard and angular. He unwrapped it to find a key and instructions in Laurent’s handwriting for how to get to a unit on the top floor of the building. He got his duffel bag out of the trunk, offered the driver a tip he looked confused about but didn’t turn down, and went looking for the apartment.

It was a beautiful place, decorated in a style that was trendy but curiously impersonal. The art over the mantel was a bucolic village scene that didn’t seem like it matched what Makoto knew about Laurent’s tastes. He wandered through the apartment, examining the takeout boxes in the fridge and the very small collection of pristine clothes hanging in the closet, and concluded that Laurent must have rented this place. A note on the gleaming kitchen table, also in Laurent’s writing, said  _ Had to run out for an emergency. Make yourself comfortable. _

Makoto looked at the king-sized bed in the master bedroom, considered how awkward he’d feel if he guessed wrong about Laurent’s intentions for this visit, and decided to take the second bedroom instead. Sleep was already dragging at him as he dropped his bag on the floor. He took the time to shower in the bathroom and checked every window just in case he could see the Eiffel Tower out of any of them. No luck, and no Laurent either.

He woke up late in the morning with the strange waterlogged feeling of his internal clock not quite matching up with the time zone. He dressed slowly and spent too long looking at his own reflection in the vanity mirror. He still looked younger than his age, and couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hopelessly out of place in this chic apartment.

Laurent was sitting at the kitchen table, reading today’s copy of the New York Times. He set it aside when he saw Makoto and smiled up at him with such beautific innocence that he had to be hiding something. “Where was your emergency?” Makoto asked.

“New York. But don’t worry, it’s all sorted out now.” Laurent gestured to the page he’d put aside, which was entirely taken up with a story about a financier being arrested for embezzlement. Makoto wasn’t sure if that meant he’d had some sort of hand in the man’s downfall. “For your time in Paris, you have my full attention.”

Makoto opened his mouth to protest on instinct before he realized he’d only be scolding Laurent for doing him a favor. “Thank you,” he said instead.

“Breakfast first, and then--oh, what is it that tourists like to do? I suppose we could go to the Louvre. They have a travelling exhibition on Vermeer, which should be quite fun, since I have it on good authority that one of them is a van Meegeren. Now there was a confidence man for the ages!”

Makoto had no idea what that meant, but he allowed Laurent to pull him along in his wake. The day passed in a pleasant blur. Later, Makoto would remember small moments of pleasure: a buttery pastry melting on his tongue, the warmth of Laurent’s hand on his shoulder as he told him in a low voice about how difficult it was to falsify the age of oil paint, the gleam in his blue eyes as they passed a news stand and Makoto noticed that the financier’s downfall had made front page headlines in Le Monde.

Over dinner in the kind of bistro Makoto hadn’t believed existed outside movies, he asked, “Do you think about the body count here too?”

Laurent gave a languid shrug and said, “Yes, of course.”

“All the time? When you were walking around the museum, were you thinking, how many people died for these pretty paintings?”

“Of course. What do you think museums are? You may have heard of a fellow from here named Napoleon--I’m afraid you might not appreciate his philosophy of art collection.” Laurent took a sip of his wine.

“Doesn’t it drive you crazy, walking around thinking like that all the time?” Makoto couldn’t imagine trying to live in the world thinking like that all the time. He’d nearly been driven to despair by the weight of his own crimes and his father’s crimes. How much worse must it be to be burdened by the knowledge of thousands of crimes, millions of them, so many layers of grift they piled up like sediment?

“Of course. It would be very difficult to do my job if I weren’t a little bit crazy,” said Laurent. “But when you look at things my way, it’s all perfectly logical. The world is full of confidence men; I just happen to be honest about it.”

“Why did you spend all that effort recruiting me for the Singapore job?” Makoto asked.

Laurent had been about to take another sip of wine. He paused and looked at Makoto over the curved rim of his glass. The light in the bistro was low, and his pupils were very wide, making the blue of his irises into a thin, dark ring. “I think you’re a little bit crazy too,” he said. “You have the makings of an excellent crook. All you need to do is shift your perspective a bit.”

Again, Makoto’s first instinct was to protest, to tell Laurent that he had things exactly the wrong way around. Makoto didn’t see the world as a series of crimes--no, he’d been completely focused on his own crimes, and his father’s crimes, and how they tainted everything around him. He hadn’t developed a moral philosophy beyond that. And yet he’d been perfectly happy to fly to France on stolen credits, to visit the man who’d tricked and lied to him, so it was too late to start pretending he was entirely innocent.

Instead, he asked, “Why does it matter to you what my perspective is?”

“All the best games are better with a partner,” said Laurent. “And you, I think, would make an excellent partner.”

Makoto might have spent the last couple years alone, but he still knew an invitation when he heard one. And he hadn’t flown halfway across the world with the intention of turning that invitation down.

Getting back to the apartment required a cab ride; Makoto still hadn’t looked up where exactly the neighborhood was in relation to the handful of landmarks he knew about in Paris. Figuring it out now seemed less important than waiting for the moment the door shut behind them so he could crowd Laurent up against the wall. He swallowed Laurent’s laughter with a kiss. Everything he wanted seemed so close and so far away at the same time. Makoto felt like his skin was too tight, impossibly constrictive, the tangle of feelings inside him pressing up and out through his ribcage. He’d spent so long going through the same motions every day, striving for humility, telling himself it was enough. Laurent cupped his jaw, slid his hands down so his thumbs brushed the sensitive spot where his pulse beat rabbit-fast under his skin, and all the pleasure of a simple life was nothing compared to this.

They left a trail of clothing to the master bedroom. All the usual awkwardness of getting naked in front of a near-stranger was absent when it was Laurent popping open the buttons of his shirt, unbuckling his belt, waiting with an expression of mixed amusement and lust as Makoto shuffled out of his jeans. The body under Laurent’s tailored suit was the best work of art he’d seen that day, lean and muscular, the hair on his belly and between his legs a darker shade of blonde than Makoto had been expecting. Next to him, Makoto felt hopelessly short and thin. Laurent must not have been thinking along the same lines, because he made an appreciative noise and his ran his hands down Makoto’s ribcage to his waist.

Makoto could feel the edge of the bed digging into the back of his knees. He went over backwards, dragging Laurent down with him, flesh on flesh in a riot of sensation that left his head spinning. When had he last been so completely wrapped around somebody? It had to be when he’d charged out the window with Abby. There was a different kind of dizziness in this drop. He wriggled backward to more or less where he thought the head of the bed ought to be, and Laurent followed him.

Laurent kissed him. Makoto lost himself in the sensation for a while, then broke away for air and to say, “Do you have condoms?”

“Of course. But first, I believe I owe you a debt.” Laurent worked his way down Makoto’s body with teeth and tongue, leaving Makoto flushed and squirming and so wound up that the first warm, wet lick over the head of his cock nearly brought him to an embarrassing climax far too soon. He dug his fingers into Laurent’s blond hair and held on for as long as he could stand it, feeling the same rush of nervous anticipation that had preceded his first few cons.

“Have you done this before?” Laurent asked when he sat up to get a bottle of lube out of the nightstand beside the bed.

“Of course I have,” Makoto lied. He’d done it with toys, anyway, which was close enough. “Just stick it in already.”

Laurent insisted on taking his time anyway, opening Makoto up with two well-lubricated fingers. It was different when someone else did it, almost too intimate. Makoto had been prepared for the sensation, but not the feeling of Laurent’s eyes on him, or the way he couldn’t quite predict the curl and thrust of Laurent’s fingers. 

When Laurent sat back and reached into the nightstand again for a condom, Makoto put a hand on his chest and pushed him down onto the bed. Laurent took the fall easily, laughing; Makoto kissed him to hide how nervous he really was. He straddled Laurent’s hips, one hand on the mattress, one hand reaching back to guide Laurent’s cock into place. He knew it wasn’t small--he’d nearly choked on it--but it felt even bigger now, pressed up against the slick but still-clenched rim of his asshole.

The stretch was uncomfortable at first, intense enough to make Makoto wish he’d chosen a position that would let him hide his face so Laurent didn’t have to see him wincing. He took a deep breath and let his trembling thighs sink a little lower. Nearly all of his awareness seemed to be focused on the feeling of Laurent’s cock inside him, an intrusive sensation right on the borderland between comfort and pain. Then he took another breath, shifted his hips, and felt the spark of pleasure he’d been looking for.

Laurent looked almost as surprised as he felt when he started moving in earnest and that pleasure built in pulses of sensation. It was a good expression on him, softer and more vulnerable than Makoto had seen before, his blue eyes wide with wonder. He braced his hands on Makoto’s thighs and started moving too, carefully at first, then thrusting deeper and faster.

Makoto came first, one hand on his cock, the other clutching Laurent’s shoulder tight enough to dent the hard curve of his deltoid. It was one of those orgasms good enough to leave him, for a few seconds, completely without shame or awareness of anything at all beyond the rippling waves of sensation and the satisfaction of watching his own come streak out over the hard lines of Laurent’s stomach. Laurent followed only a few thrusts later, still looking deliciously undone with his eyes screwed closed and his teeth sinking into his lower lip.

Makoto felt embarassed again afterwards, the immediate post-orgasmic glow giving way to the awkwardness of easing Laurent out of him and making an ungainly escape to the bathroom to clean up. Laurent joined him in the shower, though, and pressed him up against the glass of the stall with a kiss that already had him thinking about round two.

He wasn’t going to be Laurent’s partner. This was a pleasant vacation, but he’d have to find a job eventually--a  _ real _ job, actual paying work, not another grift. Maybe he could try living honestly somewhere a little further from Japan, he thought as Laurent kissed his way down the curve of Makoto’s neck and sank his teeth into the flesh above his collarbone. Maybe he could make an honest living a lot closer to Paris. Maybe the next goodbye wouldn’t be forever after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that this chapter should explain the gap between cases 2 and 3, since it's a bit weird that Makoto suddenly turns up with a restaurant job in Nice, and that he's broke again so soon after earning so much money in Singapore.


End file.
